How far have we really come? (Hà Nôi, Vietnam)

A restful night's sleep proved elusive due to the required adjustment to a different time zone and the arctic rated doona that covered the bed. Despite the air con, I defy anyone in the tropics to sleep under a bed cover that belongs in a winter climate. Otherwise, happy days, or nights, as the case may be.

As we are in total control (said in a deep, powerful, thundering voice) until the official tour commences, we felt no need to rush anywhere. A leisurely morning to dress for breakfast, into the lift and down to the foyer/lobby where we were met with chaos. Many, many people and much noise. It was almost as if we has descended in Dante's inferno, level 1.

A quick side step manoeuvered us towards one of the breakfast venues. There are two. We were rejected from the first option. "Sorry, we're full". I thought I was at a white Australia rally in Cronulla. Onward we went to the pool area where we were finally accepted. 

Breakfast is interesting because, as with most major hotels, they attempt to cater to the sensitivities of multiple nationalities. For the Australians, there were mini ham and cheese croissants. Unheated. The French influence ensured croissants (no ham and cheese), pain au chocolat, other pastries and baguettes. There were the usual egg fetishes and bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms et al. And the Vietnamese section, banh mi, dumplings, spring rolls, fresh fruit and many things I was not able to identify. Perhaps many is an exaggeration.

Coffee. Always a sticking point for us. There was choice. They had plunger coffee! WTF! Americans, I reckon. We ordered double shot long blacks. An automated machine gave it life. It was passable.

Over breakfast, we reconnoîtered a map of the old district and located the dress shop where we hoped Jayne would be able to get some dresses made. Quickly. She had brought two dresses that she wanted copied. It looked about 20 minutes walk from the hotel, should we survive Hà Nôi's traffic. Before we departed on our mission, we approached the concierge again to tell her that the sheet we had requested had not arrived, she had passed the message on to housekeeping but clearly something had been lost in the translation. "Room number, madame?" "574." We requested she try again and then left to locate the old city and its lake.

The Opera House and traffic.

It is Sunday and I am uncertain if that is a good thing or bad thing, as far as the traffic is concerned. As it turned out, it was a no thing. It made little difference. It was still anarchy on the roads. And footpaths too. Having grown up in Sydney where the car is king and pedestrians are an annoyance, I was ready for the battle. At least I thought I was. Thankfully the Ao Dai festival was in full swing and many roads had been closed to allow pedestrians to take over the roads.

Food delivery of a different kind.

Ao Dai is the traditional dress for women and there were many examples of women in their Ao Dai. There were, however, more brides. Sunday must be the day to get married. There were, literally, brides on every corner getting photographed with their bridal party. Photographers were wired for sound and there was rarely less than two or three for each party. They waited patiently for traffic to pass to get the right shot. It was a spectacle. 

Ladies in traditional dress.

Most of this occurred around the Hoan Kiem lake area, an expanse of water that contains the Ngoc Son Temple and the turtle tower. Stalls surrounded the lake, selling everything from Ao Dai to fruit to other produce, children's toys and food. There were also presentation/performance and games areas. It was like a school fête spread over a vast area.

War games for kids. 

Despite the allure of the guessing game, 'What is that they're selling?', we continued to navigate to Royal Silk, the dressmaker's shop. Unsuccessfully. Getting lost in the old city has similarities to wandering the streets of Venice. If you haven't been lost there, you are lying or you didn't leave your accommodation. Anyway, we saw lots of interesting things that we may never find again and eventually zig-zagged our way to the dress maker.

The shop is tiny and it was already crowded with three people and Daisy, the dressmaker. Jayne decided to be polite and stand outside on the footpath. We wait. We wait. The women inside are not looking like they are emerging any time soon. "Go in," I suggest. "It's too crowded," is the response. We wait some more and then two other women walk down the street and straight into the shop. We exchange glances, I roll my eyes and we decide to circumnavigate the lake and return later.

Loved on TripAdvisor and by Jayne.

Back into the festival we go, taking the opportunity to walk on streets that are not filled with cars and motorbikes attempting to take your life. We hadn't been walking long before we were approached by a young woman who said she was an English teacher and asked could we spare a few minutes to speak in English with some of her students? "Of course," we replied. How could we not? Particularly given my last line of work in international education.

Lost in translation, or just a rip-off?

The three Year 6 students had an excellent grasp of English. We chatted for a while as the teacher filmed us and the proud parents looked on. We congratulated the students for the excellent English and the teacher for the great work she had done with her students and continued our journey around the lake.

I was confident I could find our way back to Royal Silk. Too confident perhaps and another wrong turn had us exploring streets we had not intended to visit. And then, we were back on track and we were standing outside the shop. The women who had walked in as we waited previously, were still there but left shortly after Jayne went inside the shop.

Space is at a premium.

Daisy looked at the dresses, spoke with Jayne about options and suggested they travel together to fabric market to select what was required. When Jayne inquired where the market was, Daisy informed her that it was about 1.5 kms away and that she would transport Jayne on the back of her scooter. "Thank you but no thank you." "I am a good driver," said Daisy. "Nothing personal but that is not in my comfort zone and besides my husband is with me," said Jayne. "No problem," said Daisy. "We will go by taxi and your husband can come too." Disappointed with this outcome I climbed into the taxi. I would have paid to see Jayne as a pillion passenger on one of the scooters that buzz around the streets.

Taxi summoned, dresses in hand along with another customer's order, we jumped into the taxi, paid for by Daisy, and left the old city precinct to go to the markets, "a dressmaker's heaven" as Daisy described it. Or a moth's nightmare, so much choice, too much choice.

We wove through the manic traffic and stopped on a non-descript street corner. The only concession the locals seem to make in regard to preserving life and limb on streets is that you must get in and out of the vehicle on the curbside - presumably to avoid unexpected doors opening onto pedestrians, scooters, cars, trucks, buses and whatever else is vying for a piece of the road.

Turtle Tower.

We followed Daisy up two flights of stairs to a landing that suddenly opened out into a mezzanine, around which, as far as you could see, were literally thousands and thousands of bolts and layers of fabrics stacked from floor to ceiling. Each bolt hole (sorry, couldn't resist) on the mezzanine was the province of a different proprietor who happily pulled out as many samples as you wanted to see. Equipped with wooden rulers, they deftly measured off the required amounts of the chosen fabric, depositing them into a bag. Each selection was paid for by Daisy using her phone to scan a QR code. I was so overawed by the never ending stacks of material I neglected to take a photo - even though the camera was in my hand the entire time.

Once one fabric was secured, it was onto another proprietor, edging past ladies who were having their lunch break, sitting on little stools in the middle of their allotted section of the mezzanine. 

Once our business was complete, Daisy said she would have the dresses ready the day after tomorrow - they could be picked up at her shop or she could deliver them to the hotel, whichever was easier. We said we would come to her on Tuesday afternoon and we left her to continue shopping for fabric for her other customer. No money changed hands - this will be sorted when the dresses are ready in a day and a half's time.

Looking toward Son Ngoc Temple.

Still reeling from the experience, we made our way back down the stairs and out into the daylight to walk back to the hotel - a shorter distance than the taxi ride from the old city. Just near the hotel, we met Thi again who had collected us from the airport. After a quick chat about our first day, we headed into the hotel for a well-earned drink at the poolside bar.

I was warned, dear reader, that I would have trouble finding decent wine in Vietnam. This has not proven to be the case. The hotel has a delightful wine cellar and many French wines on offer to slake my thirst.

Despite a jam-packed day, we were not done yet as we had booked in to participate in a guests-only tour of the hotel which included hearing about its history since 1901 and a tour of a wartime bunker that was built during the American War only discovered under the hotel in the 2011 when they excavated to build a new bar and the pool.

The history tour was quite brief but we are welcome to go by ourselves to read some of the information on the walls of the "History Path". After the walk along the path, we were led to a flight of stairs near the pool area that is kept locked but leads underground to a series of cement rooms that were used to keep guests safe when the city was under bombardment during the war. The air was quite stifling and the feeling was oppressive and claustrophobic, despite there only being about a dozen guests and the guide. We spent only about 10 minutes in these confines in which guests had had to spend hours, waiting for the all clear. The lack of oxygen was palpable and I wondered how they ventilated these spaces particularly as there were up to 50 people sheltering from the American bombs, sometimes for whole days.

Cosy. And without a lot of oxygen.

After we were mercifully above ground, we finished the tour in the bar with a cold drink. No, it was non-alcoholic, dear reader, but delightfully refreshing. At this point the half of the group that was American, all checked out which part of the States they were from and one lady quizzed the guide on her thoughts around the relative merits of capitalism, communism and socialism, declaring that the States were becoming socialist. She said it like it was a bad thing. This vastly amused the guide who vividly remembered the war as a ten year old child. She declared the time for an "us and them" approach was over and that globalism was the credo now. I disagree, I think the current form of globalism is nearing its end and will need to be reborn in a different style.

Water constantly ran down these stairs.

The American woman who had made the socialist comment intrigued me. I desperately wanted to ask why she thought America becoming more socialist would be a bad thing (after all American capitalism has been such a stunning excess, sorry I mean success). In an out of character moment I stayed silent. Then she declared why she is in Vietnam ... she's involved in a group that raises funds to construct a Ronald McDonald House in areas where they are needed. Now that is socialism at work I thought and again I wanted to point this out, but I could feel Jayne's eyes burning into the side of my head. No comment. 

The Americans moved on leaving the Aussies behind. We are all part of the APT tour and chatted for a while about the forthcoming journey and other places we've been, before it was time to be elsewhere.

We re-appeared at Le Club some hours later for dinner, opting for French fare, a croque monsieur and a bottle of French Chardonnay. A most civilised way to conclude a long day that included over over 10 km of walking. What's more, the elusive sheet had been installed while we were at dinner so sleep without suffocation was a distinct possibility!

Ok then, you've made it to the end dear reader. Well done. I will have more to say about the American War as it is referred to here. I was going to title this post Where are you now my son? a song written by Joan Baez after she witnessed the aftermath of a bombing in Hà Nôi. She was staying at the Metropole, but at 21 minutes it tested my endurance more than completing this post. It is relevant and poignant but also depressing given the current climate. So, I opted for Powderfinger's How far have we really come? Their 2003 classic is still as relevant today, twenty years after it was written, as it would have been in 1973. Sad really.

Until tomorrow.

Lover, you should've come over (Hà Nôi, Vietnam)

Another adventure begins dear reader, and this time we're off to the previously unvisited countries of Vietnam and Cambodia. To be fair, I have been to the former for work but I'm not sure that counts. Flying visits for trade presentations or 'meet and greets' for prospective students (and their parents), demonstration classes and the like. I really didn't see much of the country and have been keen to return, so when APT offered us a discount trip on the back of some minor problems with our European River cruise last year, the answer was swift and in the affirmative.

This cruise. It was hard to take.

Of course Qantas wouldn't come to the party and wanted some ridiculous amount of money for the airfares so we jumped ship, so to speak, and booked with Singapore Airlines. More on that later.

As with our previous blog posts the title will be a song. Generally the reason for the selection is obvious. Sometimes not. Where possible I'll hyperlink the music somewhere in the post as I explain my choice. Not only does it allow me to share my excellent taste in music, it also provides a window into my thought processes. Probably best not to dwell too heavily on the latter.

Another trip commences with the perennial problem of how to get to the airport. No chauffeur this time. APT thought they had been generous enough. The train to the airport costs around $30 each and we have to travel into Central or out to Wolli Creek and change because, ridiculously, the airport line skirts around Redfern. An inconvenient first world problem and not the last we shall encounter I'm certain. An Uber was projected to cost around $52ish, cheaper than the train and a limo was $80. Then Jayne scored an email from Uber offering a 25% discount for pre-booked fares. Bargain. Uber it is. Booked for a 6:30am pick-up, door-to-door and cheaper than the train and less hassle with the bags.

Despite having booked the ride a week earlier, Richard our driver was only made aware of it that morning. He was on time in his new car that was purchased through SPLEND. Google it dear reader. It's a lease-to-own scheme that ties in with car-share companies like Uber. Richard was spot on time and we were at the airport and heading through customs before 7am. 

On the drive we discussed how Uber actually works. It's quite interesting and certainly not for me. As it is a US based company the pre-booked rides all come through the central program at the same time. Regardless of country. Super keen Uber drivers need to be up and ready to go before 4am when the day's fares come through. It wouldn't take much to tweak the software to ensure a more effective and timely delivery of information.

Sadly there would be no Qantas First Lounge today, but the Singapore Lounge was fine and we settled in for breakfast and the obligatory glass of champagne before we boarded the plane.

It was going to be a long day. Sydney to Singapore, change plane and terminal, then Singapore to Hà Nôi. The layover time in Singapore you ask? Less than an hour. I wouldn't have trusted Qantas to make that narrow window, let alone transit our luggage as well. Spoiler alert. Singapore Airlines nailed it.

The second flight was as uneventful and nowhere near capacity. We discovered "Book the Cook" a little perk of flying Business Class where you can pre-order meals from a much more extensive menu than is usually supplied. Good one Singapore Air. Perhaps Qantas ... nah, not in the current climate, it might shave 1 cent off the dividend.

We breezed through customs. Almost. The official I had seemed intent on reading every stamp in my passport. It's new, I replaced my old one last year, so if all my China visits came up on the screen there was no evidence on the pages before him. After what seemed an eternity the open page was stamped and I was allowed to join Jayne in Vietnam.

Bag collection was also fast and efficient. Unlike Qantas, who promise the world and rarely deliver. The Business Class bags were tagged and actually arrived first. Through the doors and out into the humidity and cigarette smoke, towards the man waving the APT paddle. Thi guided us to our car, outlined the program that would begin in a few days, pointed out some sights and made some recommendations of places we might like to visit.

At the hotel, we were handed over to Long, a former academic who looks only about half of his 50 years. He will be our Tour Director as we cruise down the Mekong.

The room.

The hotel is the Sofitel Legend Metropole, recently refurbished and definitely holding onto its French heritage. We scored a room upgrade because of my years with Accor. Bonus. Waiting in the room were a fruit platter, macarons, chocolates and a drink voucher. More importantly, after being in transit for around 16 hours it was time for a hot shower and then to test out the King sized bed.

The bathroom.

And to the title of this post. OK, I struggled finding a song (a) that was suitable for this post, (b) hadn't been used before and (c) wasn't about the war. In the end I just went random. Surprised? If you've been looking for the link to Jeff Buckley's Lover, you should've come over and found one, I'd love to hear it, because the only reasoning behind it is I like it. A lot. Anyway, have a listen. A great talent gone too soon from this world.

Until tomorrow.